


Denouement

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8740423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Maglor thought it was over, but the other part of his soul doesn’t idly forget.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for aeternaxsblog’s “Maglor\Eonwe Soulmate au” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/149673766130/fic-bingo).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Dinner with Elrond is often a bittersweet experience. Maglor does enjoy sitting with him, seeing him, now grown strong and beautiful. He’s a fitting lord, one that Maglor’s proud of, even if Maglor still thinks that he did more harm than good towards that. Elrond forgave too easily. Maglor keeps these dinners secluded to avoid the reverence that always dons on the faces of Imladris’ other occupants. He doesn’t deserve their awe. He doesn’t want Elrond’s pity. By the time he returns to his quarters, he’s as drained as ever. He wishes there were locks on these doors. No one has yet disturbed him, but he would like that safety.

He drifts towards the bed with his fingers at the clasps of his robes. He’s not even sure if he has the energy to undress—he may as well just flop into bed and sink wistfully into unconsciousness. He’s no great prince here. He hasn’t been for some time.

He catches a flicker of light in the corner of his eye, and his fingers still at his collar. He turns towards the balcony, and thoughts of his own plight melt away. Imladris melts away. Through the gossamer curtains swaying gently in the breeze, Maglor can see the handsome figure at the rail of his balcony. The man is dressed in pure white robes, the light that seems to shimmer off his hair and skin more dazzling than the stars. Silhouetted in the darkness of the lavender-blue sky, Eönwë looks like a star himself.

Maglor murmurs under his breath, “It cannot be.” It just _can’t_. But Eönwë glances over his shoulder, eyes piercing Maglor’s, and Maglor can feel his knees grow weak. He can _feel_ Eönwë, even through the distance, like Eönwë’s sheer presence has wrapped tightly around him. He wonders how he didn’t sense this earlier. How he didn’t know the second Eönwë set foot across these borders. But of course, their bond is like no other. Eönwë is not just a Maia, but _the_ Maia in many ways. The one that used to oversee them. The one that warned them not to go. The one that offered Maglor salvation and granted him mercy afterwards when he foolishly cast it aside. He looks at Eönwë now and has half a mind to run. He’s not sure he has it left in him to do this.

But he was a great prince once, and the same strength that’s carried him on through all the empty years propels him forward now: he lets himself be drawn towards the balcony. He ducks through the curtains and into the cool night air, where he longs to toss his arms around Eönwë but clutches at the white railing instead. They stand side-by-side, shoulders lightly touching. That alone quickens Maglor’s breath. Eönwë carries a faintly sweet scent, so alluring and nostalgic, and it’s been too many years for Maglor to remember the origin. Just that he _missed that scent._ Like he missed Eönwë’s touch. His voice, his _taste_. The sight of him is more than Maglor can bear, and instead, Maglor’s gaze falls across the familiar beauty of the valley. Imladris is small compared to the Elven cities of old, but Elrond has kept it well, and it holds its own virtue. Maglor wants to make small talk of it but finds his tongue stuck in his mouth.

Eönwë says first, his deep, silken voice washing over Maglor in such _pleasure_ , “So you have finally given up your quest for the lost Silmaril.” There’s a short pause, where Maglor says nothing—he hasn’t _truly_ abandoned it, not in his heart. Then Eönwë asks with genuine curiosity, “Why did you not return to me?”

Maglor can’t help himself. He lets out a bitter laugh. His knuckles tighten against the railing, face scrunching with his own self-hatred. It seems absurd of Eönwë to even ask that. When Maglor dares to look over, he finds Eönwë’s gaze fixated on him, soft and patient. It takes a minute for Maglor to gather the will to speak. Finally, he manages, “How could I, after all I have done?”

“Our souls are bound,” Eönwë says simply, as though nothing else matters. “You were made for me, and I for you. We have known this for some time. I forgive you. I must.”

Maglor shakes his head, his dark hair sliding over his violet robes, set in stark contrast to all of Eönwë’s brightness. “You must _not_. Surely, when Manwë learns of this—” 

“Even Manwë has not the power to defy our creator,” Eönwë interrupts, gentle but firm. 

Maglor gives a disgusted snort and pushes away from the balcony. He knew that, but still; Eönwë is _all_ soul; it seems cruel to bind him, such a loyal, perfect creature, to an animal so flawed. Surely, he was better off with Maglor a sea away. Without meeting Eönwë’s eye, Maglor insists, “It is not _fair_. You are a god. You should be able to burn away whatever still grips you, whatever still lets you even remember my name.”

Eönwë near-whispers, “I will remember your name when the world is nothing but dust and ash, and all of time has ended.” He looks utterly serious. Maglor could almost cry. 

It was easier, in a way, to have no love at all. It was easier when he could follow his father and rally to his brothers, and use the painful hole in his heart as a drive to go forward. Having Eönwë here reminds him of that. He can’t remember how he ever managed to leave _this_ in the first place. He can _feel_ Eönwë on him. The memory of touch blazes along his skin, hazy etchings of another time haunting his mind. His body longs, so very badly, to reach for Eönwë’s embrace. He wraps his arms tight around himself just to keep them at bay. When he makes himself reject the heat that Eönwë offers, the night feels all the colder. He tells himself that’s why he’s trembling. They should go inside.

He should leave this place, where he can’t burden Elrond anymore and none can find him. He feels foolish for coming here at all. 

Eönwë steps towards him. He wants to back up, but he doesn’t have the power. Another step, and Eönwë is flat against him, feet bracketing his, chest brushing his, two hands reaching out to tentatively cup his hips. When those hands slide back to encompass his spine, Maglor finds himself arching closer. His face tilts. He needs to stop himself. He can’t. Eönwë ends what little different is left by bringing their mouths together.

The kiss is short, not quite chaste, not yet as ravenous as Maglor needs. They part despite Maglor’s whine, and Eönwë whispers across his lips, “Do you still feel the pull to your soulmate?”

Maglor means to say _no_ , but his voice breaks, and he chokes out, raspy and on the verge of a sob, “I have longed to feel your arms around me ever since that very first moment that I left Valinor.”

Eönwë nods. Eönwë draws him in, so understanding, one hand locking tight around his middle and the other rising to rub soothing circles into his shoulders. Maglor is sure he’ll burst. He gives in, crumples and buries himself in Eönwë’s neck, inhales and clutches thickly on. He won’t let go. 

Eönwë pets him and quietly asks, “May I take you home?”

Maglor no longer has a home. Everyone he loved is gone, except one elf who’s true parents he slaughtered and one deity he defied. He mutters, “I belong in Mandos’ Halls.”

Eönwë counters simply, “You belong in my halls.”

Maglor sighs. But he nods. It does feel, though he doesn’t deserve any measure of it, so _good_ to be here again. The pleasure of their mere closeness is overwhelming. Eönwë’s warm breath ghosting across his chest, Eönwë’s long fingers spread across his back, Eönwë’s comforting voice in his ears, is all more than he can bear. He clings to Eönwë as desperately as he can and closes his eyes.

And in a flash of light, he’s back where he belongs.


End file.
